


stuck fixated on one star (when the world is crashing down)

by epilogues



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Angst, Cancer, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Terminal Illnesses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-03
Updated: 2018-02-03
Packaged: 2019-03-13 00:12:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13558578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/epilogues/pseuds/epilogues
Summary: person a is married to person c, but is actually in love with a person b, who is terminally ill.orfalling in love with the wrong person at the wrong time





	stuck fixated on one star (when the world is crashing down)

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by this prompt: _Person A is married to Person C, but is actually in love with a Person B, who is terminally ill._ from the rad blog @otpprompting on tumblr!!
> 
> ! as of right now, i haven't proofread this?? it's 1:27am and i'm tired but i rly want to post this lol, so basically just let me know of any typos and stuff like that !

“Hey, I’m going to visit Trick, be back soon,” Joe calls over his shoulder, the familiar twinges of guilt already settling into his stomach as his hand touches the doorknob.

Andy looks up from his magazine, biting his lower lip. “Okay, love, just . . .try not to miss dinner this time.” He forces out a laugh at that. His eyes don’t quite meet Joe’s, though.

“I won’t, I promise,” Joe says. He quickly draws an X in the air over his chest and slips out of the door.

Once he’s pulled onto the interstate, the familiar route naturally shifting his body into autopilot, Joe turns up the radio in an attempt to chase Andy’s disappointed face out of his mind. It’s not like he _likes_ leaving his husband, but it’s for Patrick. It’s for Patrick, okay, who hasn’t left the fucking hospital in months, who looks paler and says less every time Joe visits, who still tries his damn hardest to pretend like he’s perfectly fine despite the eleven month diagnosis that came ten months ago. It’s for _Patrick._

The cold December air bites at Joe as he hurries inside and up to the seventh floor. He takes the stairs, even though seven flights is more than his body would prefer, simply to avoid the looks of the others in the elevator when he says, “Floor seven, please.” Floor seven, as Patrick jokes, doesn’t rhyme with _heaven_ by coincidence. The two places are closer than anyone would like; the lines blur far too often.

This is the part where, ten months ago, Joe would’ve gagged on the sharp antiseptic scent as he stepped out of the stairwell. Now, though, he just wrinkles his nose a bit and heads down to room 718. The door is cracked open when he arrives, but he knocks anyway.

“Come in,” Patrick calls. The words are followed by a short coughing fit that makes Joe wince as he eases the door open.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hey,” Patrick replies. His smile is easy, eyes crinkling up at the corners. “No Andy?”

Joe shakes his head as he pulls up a chair next to Patrick’s bed. “Nah, you know how he is about hospitals.”

Patrick sighs softly. The noise holds a tiny _wheeze_ around the edges. “I know. Tell him I said hi, though, and that he better get his ass down here before I kick the bucket.”

“Trick . .” Joe shakes his head; it’s a pointless battle and he knows it. “Has your family been by this week?”

“Yeah, you just missed my mom, actually, she left maybe 30 minutes ago?”

Joe hums in acknowledgment and fights the urge to run his fingers gently through what’s left of Patrick’s hair, or take his hand. “If you’re tired, you know, you don’t have to entertain me, you know. I can come back tomorrow,” he says.

Patrick waves a hand, pausing to cough into the crook of his elbow before he lets it fall back onto the bed. “I’m good, I’m good.”

There’s a silence before Joe speaks again. “Pete’s flying in next week. He said he wants to be home for the holidays, though I’m pretty sure he just wants to see you.

“Good, I’ve been meaning to call that fucker,” Patrick says, a hint of a laugh in his voice. “Okay, but I gotta rant about something. Soap operas, man, I know I bashed them before, but I’ve gotten hooked. . .”

They fall into easy conversation for what honestly feels like just a few minutes before Joe looks at the clock and realizes that it’s 5:46pm. Dinner’s at 6pm. “Shit,” he says, “I lost track of time. I really have to go, but I’ll be back again soon.”

Joe swears he sees something in Patrick’s eyes dim. “Alright, see you soon, Joe.”  


* * *

 

Joe misses dinner. It’s 6:23pm when he pulls into the driveway, feeling fucking _terrible._ He’s literally the world’s worst husband, Joe decides, as he sees Andy’s silhouette in the kitchen window, checking his watch and glancing at the empty seat across the table.

He’s inside as soon as possible, the guilt only getting heavier when he realizes that Andy made Joe’s favorite vegetable soup. “Fuck,” Joe says, rushing into the kitchen. “Fuck, hon, I’m so sorry, I lost track of time, I’m so sorry.”

Andy gets up from his chair and meets Joe’s hug. “It’s okay,” he murmurs, although it doesn’t really sound like he means it. “It’s okay.”  
  
They break apart, and Andy gestures to the bowls on the table. “I made your soup. It’s probably cold now, but I can put it in the microwave for you if you want.”

“I’ve got it,” Joe says quickly. He scoops up the two bowls and puts them in the microwave before turning and bracing his back against the harsh kitchen counter, head down. “Fuck, Andy, I’m. I’m so sorry. It won’t happen again, I promise.”

Andy just takes his hand and pulls him close once more. “It’s okay. How’s Patrick?”

Pressing his face into the crook of Andy’s neck, Joe replies, “He’s good, I guess, good as he can be. Said he wants you to come by.”

“Maybe we should stop by together tomorrow then.”

Joe hums in response before going to retrieve the soup from the microwave, and he and Andy eat in relative silence.

* * *

_TWELVE MONTHS EARLIER_

“Andy, I swear to God-”

“I’ll take Park Place,” Andy says smugly to Patrick, handing him a stack of wrinkled paper.

“Goddamnit!” Joe swears.

Andy snickers and leans over to rest his head on Joe’s shoulder. Joe can’t help but lean back, ignoring Pete’s eye roll at the PDA.

Patrick hands over the property card before briefly ducking his face into his arm to cough.

“Shit, man, you’ve been coughing all day. Are you sure you’re not coming down with something?” Pete says, concern in his voice.

“I’m good,” Patrick promises, even as he coughs again. “Probably just a small cold.”

Pete’s eyes narrow, and he scoots closer to Patrick to inspect his ‘platonic soulmate, Lunchbox, you’re not allowed to be sick,’ as Joe reaches for Andy’s hand.

“Those two are idiots,” Joe mumbles.

Andy snorts softly. “That’s true.”

Joe yawns, suddenly tired in the way you get in the afternoon when you realize you’ve done nothing all day. “You know what, Hurley? You’re kind of a terrible husband for taking Park Place.”

“Love you too,” Andy says. He’s laughing; Joe can tell by the barely-there shake of his shoulders.

“Mhmm,” Joe answers, and then Pete’s rolling the dice and Andy’s beating them all and Patrick’s smiling and Joe’s pretty sure he’s home here in Andy’s arms.

* * *

 

 

Pete shows up at Andy and Joe’s house three days later, dark circles under his eyes courtesy of the overnight flight from LA but a smile creasing his cheeks. “Hey,” he says when Joe opens the door.

“Hey,” Joe says. “Do you need help getting any bags out of your taxi?”

Pete shakes his head, holding up one arm that’s almost completely covered in the straps of bags. “Nah, I’ve got it, just let me in so I can drop some of it.”

Joe obliges as he shouts for Andy, who comes jogging down the stairs a second later. “Hey, Pete. Just drop your crap there for now, we can get it upstairs later. Do you want something to drink?”

“Do you have any beer in this straight-edge wasteland?” Pete jokes as he drops his bags onto the floor.

“Dude. Of course I have beer,” Joe snorts. The three men walk into the kitchen, where Joe cracks open two cans of beer for him and Pete. “So how was the flight?”

Pete shrugs. “Eh, it was alright. Could’ve done without the three hour layover, but what can you do?” He takes a sip of beer and then nods towards the space between Joe and Andy where they stand at the counter. “Good to see that the honeymoon phase is finally over between you two.”

“What do you mean?” Andy asks, his tone slightly defensive.

“Just, like. There’s actual space between you two now.”

Joe looks to his left and pretends that he hasn’t been aware of the space since it crept in, since _he_ started standing just a bit further away. “That just goes to show how long it’s been since you’ve been here, you know,” he says, hoping the deflection isn’t obvious. “You haven’t been here in, what, six months? Patrick really wants to see you, dude.”

“I know, I know, and I’ve really been trying to come, it’s just hard to find the time, you know? Especially with everything with Bronx and Ashlee, and just. It’s hard.”

“We get it,” Andy says sympathetically, and he reaches out and places his hand on Joe’s elbow. A year, hell, even six months ago, Joe probably wouldn’t even have noticed the gesture. But now, he feels hyper aware of the closed gap between them, Andy’s touch far more foreign than it should be.

* * *

 

The next day, Joe drives Pete and Andy to the hospital so they can all see Patrick. Pete’s anxious in the backseat, tapping his fingers on his thighs and the windowsill.

“How bad is he?” Pete eventually asks.

Joe looks to Andy for help. He’s not sure how to articulate six months’ difference, how to articulate how fucking ugly cancer is.

“He’s. . .not going to look the same as he did, not even the same as he looked six months ago. I know you know that, but like, be ready for it.”

Pete nods. “I really do feel bad for not being here, he’s my best friend, and he’s here, you know, and I’ve been fucking around in LA.”

“You can’t blame yourself for having a family, Pete,” Andy says. “You did what you needed to do these past months, and now you’re here.”

“I know, I know, it’s just, like, what if something happened and I wasn’t here, and-“

“You’re here now,” Andy interrupts. “You’re here and nothing happened and it’s okay.”

Pete nods again. His loose Clan hoodie only makes him look smaller, curled in on himself and exhausted. He almost looks sick too, and Joe knows he looks the same way. Thankfully, cancer’s not contagious, although Joe sometimes wonders.

They pull into the hospital parking lot and head inside. They take the elevator, standing in awkward silence with an elderly man holding a _Get Well Soon_ balloon.

Patrick’s face lights up when they come in. “Hey, guys! Pete!” His voice is weak and kind of raspy, and the short coughing fit he breaks off into clearly scares Pete.

Pete’s seen Patrick sick before, of course, but that was six months ago, before the coughing got bad and before the cannula and before Patrick was really stuck in bed. “Hey,” Pete says carefully. “Sorry I’ve been gone for so long.”

Patrick shakes his head. “It’s okay, dude, I get it. You’ve had your own stuff going on. It’s good to see you, though.”

“You too,” Pete says, and he’s standing so awkwardly in the middle of the room with his hands shoved deep into his pockets and his heart breaking because he’s losing his Patrick and that just now feels real. (Joe knows the feeling.)

“Hey, Andy,” Patrick says then, breaking the silence that had settled over the room. “I don’t know what your excuse is for not having been here for nearly a month, you live less than twenty minutes away.”

Andy wrinkles his nose. “It’s the hospital, dude, I just hate these places for some reason.”

Patrick laughs, a short, too loud bark of sound. “Me too, trust me. Come in, you guys, sit down.”

They all shuffle into the small room and try to find places to sit. Pete and Andy both pull up chairs to Patrick’s bedside, but when Joe looks around, there are no chairs left. A year ago, this is where Joe would’ve plopped down onto Andy’s lap and made the other two roll their eyes. Something about that doesn’t feel right anymore, though.

Patrick’s noticed the seating issue as well, so he says, “Joe, you can just sit on the bed if you want, or I can call a nurse to bring another chair.”

“The bed’s fine,” Joe says, waving a hand. He carefully perches himself on the end of the bed next to Patrick’s legs, suddenly hyper aware of the space he’s taking up and how it close it comes to overlapping with Patrick’s.

“So, what all have I missed?” Pete asks once they’re all settled. Joe swears he sees Pete’s eyes flick almost worriedly between him and Andy, but he brushes it off.

Andy starts telling stories from the past months, about all of the bands he’s been playing shows with and his continued attempts to get Joe at the gym more than once a week, and then Patrick chimes in with some of his hospital misadventures and the four of them fall into the kind of easy conversation they haven’t quite had since the diagnosis.

That night, back at Andy and Joe’s, something in the air’s shifted. Joe’s hand is resting on Andy’s without a second thought as they sit on the couch watching baseball, and Pete hasn’t even mentioned the divorce once. Andy is smiling more than he has in a while, now that Joe thinks about it. Truth be told, the only downside that Joe can see to this is that Patrick’s not here with them.

Joe clicks off the TV at about midnight, and they all shuffle up the stairs to their respective rooms in an odd, hazy-but-happy stupor. Once they’re in bed, Andy winds an arm around Joe’s waist and whispers, “I can’t wait for tomorrow. Love you.”

“Me neither,” Joe says through a yawn. He’s not really sure about what Andy’s referring to, but he’s already drifting off to sleep by the time it occurs to him to ask.

 

* * *

The next morning, Joe wakes up before anyone else and decides to head to the hospital. He arrives before visiting hours start, so he grabs a cup of shitty coffee from the hospital cafeteria and sips it as he waits.

About five minutes before visiting hours start, Joe figures he can probably start heading upstairs to Patrick’s room. His phone buzzes when he’s about halfway there, so he pulls it out and checks it as he keeps walking.

It’s a text from Pete. _where tf r u??_

_At hospital visiting Trick. Sorry I left w/o you guys, I’m sure you could take Andy’s car if he's not coming._

_joe. no offense but r u fucking kidding me rn_

Joe squints at his phone, confused. _What do you mean? I know I came before visiting hours but they’re about to start anyway._

He’s at the door to the seventh floor now, so he pockets his phone and heads down the hall to 718. The door’s not cracked open, which is unusual for Patrick, but Joe figures it was probably just a nurse or someone who closed it and knocks.

There’s no response.

Joe knocks again, a bit more firmly, reminding himself that it’s only 11am and that that’s a perfectly reasonable time for someone to be sleeping at. “Patrick?” he calls softly.

Again, there’s no response. Joe’s phone buzzes in his back pocket, but he’s distracted when he notices a small sign hanging over the placard that usually reads STUMP, P on the door. The sign reads _Vacant._

Joe swears all of the breath in his lungs fucking disappears in that moment, and he can’t breathe. _No,_ he tells himself. _People move rooms all the time. That’s all that this is. They would’ve told me if something happened, right? Or at least Patricia would’ve. Unless. . . no. No. Patrick’s okay. He has to be._

He quickly heads down to the end of the hall to a directory board and finds the nearest visitor’s desk. “Hey, uh, excuse me,” he says breathlessly to the receptionist behind the desk. “Do you know where Patrick Stump is? I just came to visit, but his room is empty, and I don’t know where he is, and is he okay-”

“Hey, hey, hey,” she says in a calm voice. “It’s okay, hon, why don’t you take a breath, alright? It’s okay.”

Joe inhales shakily. He knows he’s probably overreacting, but he also knows that there’s no way that he can even start to calm down until he’s sure that Patrick’s okay.

The receptionist seems satisfied with the fact that Joe’s no longer actually hyperventilating and says, “Alright, so who is it that you’re looking for again?”

“Patrick, Patrick Stump. He was in room 718.” Joe’s phone is buzzing in his back pocket again, and he silently promises to punch Pete later for the added anxiety the extra noise causes.

“Stump. . okay, thank you,” the receptionist - Joe now notices that her name tag reads Grace - says, typing something into her computer. “Alright. So last night, he had a sudden drop in condition and is currently in intensive care.”

Joe closes his eyes for a brief moment, digging his nails into his palm to stifle his shaking hands. It’s not what he’d hoped for, but Patrick’s still here, and that’s what matters. “Okay. Uh, when can I see him?”

“Are you immediate family?” Grace asks, and _fuck,_ Joe can’t deal with bullshit hospitals and their bullshit regulations right now.

“Not exactly, but we’re in a band, he’s my best friend, fuck, please, I need to see him-”

Grace sighs, pushing a loose curl of hair back behind her ear. “I’m sorry, hon, but it’s immediate family only in the ICU. If you like, I can check and see if he has any visitors right now that you could wait for, but there’s nothing I can give you past that.”

“Yes, please,” Joe says. He tries to take another deep breath, but it doesn’t do much to calm him down. “And could you - like, is he okay? What happened?”

“I can’t disclose any more specific information, but he’s alive and stable right now. He does have a visitor at the moment as well, a Patricia Stump. You’re welcome to wait in the third floor lobby for her, and,” Grace leans towards Joe, giving him a small smile as if to apologize for the fact that she’s had to play the villain right now, “well, I can’t stop her from telling you whatever you need to know, alright? I’m sorry I couldn’t do more for you, hon.”

“It’s okay. Thank you so much,” Joe says, anxious momentum already propelling him towards the elevator. Once he’s inside of it, he quickly pulls out his phone to call Patricia. There are about twenty missed texts from Pete and four missed calls from Andy, but Joe ignores the notifications for the time being.

The phone rings three times before Patricia picks up. “Joe?” she says in a hushed voice.

“Hey,” he says. “I’m at the hospital, and they told me that Patrick’s in the ICU? They won’t let me see him, but they told me you were in there and I need to know if he’s okay, and just, fuck, Patricia. Is he okay?”

“He’s sleeping right now,” she replies. “I can come meet you if you want. Where are you?”

“Third floor lobby,” Joe says, stepping off of the elevator. The fingers of his free hand are anxiously fretting chords on his thigh.

“I’ll be there in a minute.”

Joe nods, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment. “Okay. Fuck. Thank you,” he says, and then Patricia hangs up. Joe considers checking the texts from Pete but tells himself that he’s stressed enough right now and should probably focus on one thing at a time.

So instead, he paces along the elevator wall, words tumbling over and crashing into one another in his brain. The receptionist _said_ that Patrick was alive and stable, but she also said that that was “for now.” And a “sudden drop in condition” is never good either.

“Joe!” Patricia’s voice echoes down the hallway, pulling Joe out of his thoughts. Her eyes are rimmed with red and dark bags, but she offers him a tiny smile and open arms nonetheless.

He lets himself sink into her hug for a moment (much like her son, Patricia is a really good hugger) before pulling back and asking, “So what happened?”

She coughs a little to clear her throat, then says, “Why don’t we go sit down?”

Joe follows her to a pair of chairs at the edge of the small lobby.  Once they’ve both sat down, Patricia folds her hands in her lap and sighs. “So last night, Patrick’s heart rate dropped suddenly. The doctors took him right to the ICU, and once he was mostly stable, they started running tests to see what was going on. They told me that he’d most likely be awake by tomorrow and that they’d have the results of their tests then too. So now we just have to wait, I guess.”

“Okay,” Joe says, steepling his fingers and bracing his forehead against them, elbows on his knees. “Okay. Fuck. Do they have any idea about what caused it?”

Patricia exhales shakily. “Their top theory right now is that it’s another tumor, a small one, either near the heart or another place that would slow breathing.”

“And do they know when he’ll be out of the ICU?” Joe knows he’s practically interrogating Patricia right now and he feels bad, but he needs to have all of the information before he can process anything.

“Their current plan is to move him back to his old room when he wakes up from all the anesthesia from last night, although they did warn me that he may be moved again soon depending on the test results.”

Joe nods. “Okay. It’s going to be okay. Thanks, Patricia, and sorry for practically interrogating you.”

“It’s al-”

  
She’s cut off by an angry voice shouting, “JOE HURLEY! What the actual _fuck,_ man?” It’s Pete, storming over to Joe and Patricia and ignoring the dirty looks he receives from around the lobby for cussing.

Joe stands up, grabbing Pete by the shoulder because it looks like he’s about to punch something. “Pete, what the fuck, dude?” Joe hisses.

“That’s what I’m asking you,” Pete snaps, wrenching his shoulder from Joe’s grip. “What the actual fuck are you doing here?”

“Visiting Patrick, dumbass, or at least, trying to, because he might have another fucking tumor right now. What the hell is your problem?”

Pete’s whole face slackens when he hears the word tumor. “Wait, are you serious? He might have another tumor?”

Patricia nods. “His condition dropped unexpectedly last night, and the doctors aren’t sure yet but they think it’s another tumor.”

“Shit,” Pete whispers. “Where is he now?”

“ICU,” Joe says. “We can’t go in because we’re not immediate family.”

There’s a pause as Pete processes this, but then his eyes narrow as he says, “Wait. Joe. You knew that Patrick had gotten worse before you came, right? And that’s why you came here so quickly?”

Joe shakes his head. “No, I had no idea. I just wanted to visit him.”

“God _dammit,_ Joe!” Pete throws his hands up, anger returning. “You’re an idiot, you know that?”

Patricia looks torn between stepping between the two men and stepping away. She decides to step away, muttering to Joe to text her if he needs anything as she walks back down the hall to Patrick’s room. She’s never been particularly fond of Pete, Joe knows, as she still can’t help but see him as the boy that spirited her son off into rock’n’roll.

“Pete.” Joe’s confused, and he’s pissed off, and he really just wants to see Patrick right now instead of dealing with Pete’s bullshit. “What the fuck are you even talking about?”

“What’s today’s date?” Pete asks through clenched teeth. He looks dangerously close to taking a swing at Joe.

“It’s. . .” Joe trails off, and _shit._ Shit shit shit shit.

“It’s June 10th,” Pete finishes. “A.K.A. your and Andy’s second anniversary.”

Joe drops back into his chair and lets his head fall into his hands. “Fuck. I completely fucking forgot. How fucking bad of a husband can you get? He even mentioned it last night and I didn’t realize. Fuck, Pete.”

Pete sits down as well, running a hand through his already messy hair. “I can’t say I’m not pissed, Joe, okay. I got up this morning and Andy was in the kitchen about to fucking _cry._ Andy doesn’t fucking cry. He made you breakfast, you know. He made fucking bacon for you because he knows you love it even though cooking it grosses him out. I know it’s not my right to get so mad on his behalf, but. You have fucking domestic bliss, okay, and I wish that I could have that shit again. He has dinner reservations for you two tonight, and I swear, if you don’t show up, I will fucking slap you.”

“Okay, I’ll be there, fuck, I-” Joe’s voice is trembling. He’s not much of a crier but _fuck._ Hello, World’s Worst Husband award!

Pete’s worrying his lower lip between his teeth as he thinks over his next sentence. “Joe, I know I’ve been gone for a while and I know that I haven’t been back for, like, any time at all, but I know you, man. And this probably isn’t my place to say, but. I think you’re in love with Patrick, dude.”

There’s a long silence before Joe speaks. “Pete, I’m fucking married to Andy, I’m the one that fucking proposed in the first place, I-”

“Hear me out,” Pete says, holding up a hand. “I’m not saying that you’ve never been in love with Andy. I’m just saying that maybe you’re not anymore. Look, Joe, you’re here almost every day. You’re here on your fucking anniversary, and not even just because there was an emergency, but because you wanted to see Patrick. You get this look in your eyes when you see him, dude, and it’s not the look you get when you see Andy. And I don’t think it would be a stretch to say that Patrick loves you too.”

“Pete-” The denial Joe knows he should be composing sticks in his throat, unformed. “I can’t- fuck.” His brain is fucking moving at a million miles an hour through every memory of him closing the door on Andy as he ran to the hospital for Patrick, always Patrick, every memory of Patrick’s laugh and the way it was auditory adrenaline to Joe, every single fucking memory of Joe falling for Patrick without even realizing. “Fuck.”

“I’m right, aren’t I?” Pete says. The anger has dissipated from his voice now and has been replaced with a sad understanding. “Fuck, Joe. . .”

Joe’s eyes are beginning to sting, and when Pete leans over and hugs him, Joe holds on for dear life. “What am I going to do, Pete, what the fuck am I supposed to _do,_ I can’t tell Andy but I can’t _not_ tell Andy, and fuck, Pete, I _can’t_ do this, and Patrick might have another tumor and _fuck,_ I can’t deal with any of this, and-” Joe feels the quick, shallow breathing of a panic attack coming on, so he forces himself to stop and breathe. Pete’s rubbing his back and murmuring shit that Joe can’t make out right now, and the whole world seems to have been tilted on its axis for a few moments.

“Hey,” Pete says firmly. “Hey. It’ll be okay. Here’s what we’re going to do, okay? We’re going to leave here, and we’re just going to go for a drive so you can calm down, and then I’m going to take you back home so you and Andy can go to dinner, alright? It’s going to be okay. Just breathe.”

Joe closes his eyes and waits for the world to shift back again.  


* * *

 

_TWO YEARS EARLIER_

The overhead lights on the airplane ceiling glint off of the band on Andy’s finger as he flips through the safety pamphlet absentmindedly. Joe smiles at the small beam of light and reaches for his husband’s free hand.

“We just got _married_ ,” Joe says, almost still in disbelief.

Andy laughs a little and squeezes Joe’s hand. “We did.”

Joe leans in and kisses Andy briefly, pushing away his normal protests of PDA because hey, it’s their honeymoon. They’re practically _required_ to be gross and romantic.

Outside of the window, lights begin to flicker through the thin haze of clouds around the plane. “ _Married,”_ Joe repeats in awe as he looks at the sprawling city beneath them. Andy laughs a little as he rests his head on Joe’s shoulder and closes his eyes, and Joe wonders if it’s possible to spontaneously combust from how much you love someone.

* * *

 

“You feeling any better?” Pete asks once they’ve been parked for a few minutes. His casual pose in the driver’s seat and concerned eyes remind Joe of a night a long time ago, somewhere between Chicago and the rest of the world in a barely functioning van when Joe was just a kid realizing that he looked at their drummer a bit too much.

Joe shakes off the memories and the parallels and closes his eyes. Pete’s driven him to an abandoned drive-in not far from the lake. “I don’t know,” Joe admits. “I. . .fuck, Pete. FUCK!” The last word comes out in a yell. “Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize, dude,” Pete says, shaking his head. “Get it out.”

Joe nods and gets out of the car, leaving the door open as he punches a nearby cement pole. “FUCK!” he screams. " _FUCK_ THIS SHIT!”

He carries on like that until his throat is scraped hoarse and his knuckles are bruised and bleeding. Pete has to come up behind him and hold his arms behind his back so Joe doesn’t break his hand, but the minute he stops yelling, all of Joe’s energy just dissipates. His face is wet and his throat hurts and his hand is on fire and he _hurts._

“Alright,” Pete soothes. “Alright. It’s okay, c’mon, don’t break your hand. C’mon.” He turns Joe around and hugs him, and Joe lets himself sob into his best friend’s shoulder for the second time that day. Pete’s murmuring something, but Joe’s brain isn’t really all that into processing words at the moment.

“What do I _do?_ ” he finally manages. “Pete, what the fuck am I supposed to do?”

Pete doesn’t answer, which says enough. A few minutes later, though, he claps Joe on the back and says, “C’mon, I told Andy I’d get you home in time for dinner. And you’re _going_ to dinner, Joe, okay? It’s gonna be okay.” He guides a still-shaky Joe into the car and shuts the door behind him before getting in himself and starting the car.

“It’s gonna be okay,” Pete repeats. He glances over at Joe, biting his lip, before swallowing whatever else he was going to say.

Joe wraps his arms around himself and turns to stare out of the window. His knuckles sting every time they move, and he has no fucking idea what he’s supposed to do now. He can’t _tell_ Andy, but he also can’t spend the rest of his life without telling Andy. He probably shouldn’t tell Patrick, because what if Patrick doesn’t feel the same and everything goes to shit. _But then again_ , his brain whispers, _what if Patrick does feel the same? Think of how amazing that would be._ The thought trails off into a vague fantasy that’s really just a soft, tinted at the edges image of Patrick and Joe lying together on a couch somewhere. There’s a dog at Joe’s feet and the fireplace is crackling and there’s no sign that Patrick could ever have been sick in the slightest.

And that’s another thing that makes this whole fucked-up situation that much harder: Patrick’s sick. He’s not just sick, he’s fucking – Joe can’t even think the word, but it’s still there. Not to mention that he may have just gotten much worse.

And even without the cancer, it’s not like Joe could simply sweep Patrick off of his feet and carry him into the sunset. He’s _married_ . Joe lets the side of his head drop against the window and stares out of the windshield. How the fuck did he let himself fall for Patrick? It’s not like he doesn’t love Andy anymore, but at the same time. . . it almost _is._ Joe hadn’t let himself put the words to it before, but the more he thinks about it, well. The cause of the butterflies in his stomach and the warm feeling all over hasn’t been caused by _Andy_ in far too long. Joe had thought that that was just a byproduct of being married for a while, but now that he thinks about it, the cause just. . . shifted.

Joe wonders, briefly, if he subconsciously found a new interest in Patrick because of the diagnosis that widened the neck of the hourglass, but the thought’s gone as soon as it comes. He knows that’s not it.

They’re pulling onto Andy and Joe’s street when Joe clears his throat and mumbles, “Do you have any, like, tissues? So I can-“ He gestures vaguely at his face.

Pete nods. “In the glovebox.”

Joe opens it, grabs a tissue a little roughly, and starts scrubbing at his face. Pete watches him out of the corner of his eye but doesn’t say anything, and then Pete’s parking in the garage before Joe knows it.

“Look at me?” Pete asks.

Joe turns, tissue still in hand. Pete bites his lip before ruffling a bit of Joe’s hair so it falls over his eyes. “I would tell you to try and pass the red off as pot,” Pete says, “but I don’t know how well that would work right now, so just. . .act normal, okay? Act like the husband he fucking deserves, which isn’t you. I hate to say that, but it’s true and you know it. I know it’s not helpful at _all_ right now, okay, but I’m still pretty fucking pissed at you. Just so you know.”

“I’m sorry,” Joe whispers, eyes starting to swell up again.

Pete shakes his head. “Not right now, okay? Stop crying so we can head inside.”

“Sorry,” Joe repeats. He wipes his eyes one last time before dropping the tissue into his pocket and getting out of the car. Pete follows him inside, where almost all of the lights are off. Andy’s sitting on the couch, already in a nice button-down shirt. His eyes aren’t as red-rimmed as Joe’s, but it’s still pretty clear that he’s been crying.  

“Joe?” Andy says, getting up from the couch and walking over to throw his arms around his husband.

“I’m so sorry,” Joe sobs out, burying his face in Andy’s shoulder. “Fuck, Andy, I’m so sorry, fuck. I lo-” But the words stick in his throat, and Pete immediately figures out what Joe hadn’t been able to say.

He steps quickly over to the pair and claps a hand on Andy’s shoulder. “See, Hurley, I told I would bring your husband back for you.”

Andy takes a step back from Joe and nods a little shakily. “Yeah. Thanks. Uh, we should probably get going soon if we want to make it on time, Joe, are you almost ready?”

“Yeah, yeah, lemme just go change,” Joe says. He scrubs his hand across his face and heads into the bedroom to put on a different shirt.

Pete and Andy stand in a slightly awkward silence. “Andy,” Pete begins.

“I don’t want to hear it, Pete,” Andy says, raising a hand, but Pete continues.

“You can’t just tell me that you’re forgiving him for this, just like that,” Pete says. “I know it’s none of my business, but, Andy-”

Joe comes back in then, and Pete hastily shuts his mouth. Andy tosses him a look before turning to Joe and saying, “Ready?”

Joe nods, and he and Andy head out of the door.  


* * *

 

They’re halfway to the restaurant before either of them speaks. “I’m really, really, really fucking sorry,” Joe says.

Andy’s fingers tighten briefly on the steering wheel. “I understand,” he replies, and Joe knows it’s genuine. “Look, can we just, not talk about it?”

Joe nods, picking at a loose thread in his jeans. “Yeah, yeah, I just have one question: has Pete said anything to you?”

“No, not really. He’s pissed, and he wants _me_ to be pissed, but I’m not. We all forget stuff sometimes; it happens.”

“Okay. I. Thank you,” Joe says, because he knows he deserves for Andy to be fucking pissed, even though Andy himself doesn’t quite know why.

The rest of the drive is mostly silent, and Joe’s heart breaks a little more when Andy finally pulls up to the restaurant and it’s the site of their first real date. Andy reaches across the center console and gives Joe’s hand a brief squeeze. Joe pulls him i. for a short, chaste kiss and wants to punch himself for the way Patrick flickers across his mind, wants to punch himself about eighty more times for the realization that this isn’t the first time that’s happened.

Their dinner is probably the most awkward and tense meal they’ve ever shared. While they both stick to Andy’s suggestion not to bring up the day’s events, everything about earlier hangs in the air between them. Joe kind of wants to cry the whole time, especially when his thoughts keep straying to Patrick and _is he okay does he really have another tumor oh my god is he awake when i can see him,_ but he makes it through.

* * *

_FIVE YEARS EARLIER_

“I can’t believe that we’ve been dating for six months and we’re just now having our first date,” Joe laughs.

Andy smiles, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Better late than never,” he quips, and Joe raises his glass to that.

“You ready for tour tomorrow?” Joe asks after a minute.

“I guess,” Andy says. “I’ve missed it, being out playing every night, but I also haven’t missed Pete’s smell.”

Joe snorts. “True, true.” Cliché as it is, the candle in the center of the table casts a soft glow on Andy’s face. Joe reaches across the table and takes his boyfriend’s hand. He’s feeling giddy off of the wine and the look on Andy’s face when their eyes meet and the anticipation of the upcoming tour. “I really think I love you, Andy Hurley,” Joe confesses.

Andy squeezes his hand, eyes crinkling up even more as he replies, “I love you, too.”

* * *

 

Joe begs off to sleep almost as soon as they ( _finally,_ he thinks guiltily) get home from dinner. As he’s in the bathroom changing, his wedding band brushes his right hand and he stops to stare at it. He’s almost never taken it off for the past two years, but now. . . he almost feels like he shouldn’t be allowed to wear it anymore.

He slides it off slowly, like a scab off a wound, and places it on the counter. As he turns to leave the bathroom, he catches his own eyes in the mirror and wants to cry. He looks fucking _awful_ , and as he holds up his bare hand to scrub at his eyes, he feels the same way.

Joe slides into bed and stares up at the ceiling, unable to sleep. He wonders if Patrick’s awake yet, if Patricia would text him if he was. He wonders what they’re going to do if Patrick does have another tumor.

Suddenly, there’s the sharp sound of a glass slamming onto a table from the living room, which is just outside the master bedroom. Joe jumps slightly and scoots over a bit so he can listen.

“-know it’s not my place, but . . .” Pete is saying. Joe’s heart drops. He’s heard those words before.

“Then it’s not your place, Pete,” Andy snaps. “I don’t want to hear it, okay? We’ve all been under a lot of stress because of Patrick, and I’m not mad at Joe for forgetting our anniversary.”

“Just hear me out, dude,” Pete insists.

Joe’s heart is pounding, eyes squeezed shut as if that will keep out the words. Andy murmurs something Joe can’t quite make out; the springs of the old couch creak in the silence that follows.

Pete clears his throat a little. “Andy. . . you’re one of my best friends, dude, and I’m not trying to do anything to hurt you here. And I know I’ve only been back here for a little bit and I can’t expect everything to be the same, but I’m not fucking blind, even if you guys are. And I. . .I think Joe’s in love with Patrick.”

“Pete. Forgetting an anniversary doesn’t mean that you’re in love with someone else.”

“ _Think_ about it, man,” Pete says. “He’s at the hospital almost every day. He gets this, this _look_ in his eyes when he sees Patrick, and it’s not the look he gets when he sees you. I’m sorry, okay, but you can’t pretend you haven’t seen it. And not to mention. . . I talked to Joe about this earlier, and he. He didn’t deny it, Andy.”

There’s a long, long silence, and Joe knows that Andy knows.  “I’m sorry, dude,” Pete says again, and he almost sounds afraid of what he sees on Andy’s face.

“Fuck off,” hisses Andy. “Like you know anything about love.”

It’s a low fucking dig, especially so soon after the divorce, and Joe’s surprised. Andy will snap at people, sure, but that was almost too far.

“I’m going to bed,” Pete says. His voice is tight, clipped. “Goodnight.”

“Pete, wait, I-” Andy says quickly, trying to backtrack, but only moments later, the sound of Pete’s door slamming echoes through the house. “God _damnit._ ” There’s a thud that sounds suspiciously like Andy kicking the coffee table.

Joe finally opens his eyes and stares up at the ceiling once more. _Fuck,_ he thinks. Everything in his life feels like it’s spiraling down and out of his control, and he’s not sure Fall Out Boy’s going to be able to get through it. Just then, the bedroom door cracks open, and Joe immediately turns on his side and pretends to be asleep.

Andy walks in slowly, and there’s  a soft rustle as he takes off his shirt and steps into the bathroom. Joe’s breath catches in his throat when he realizes that he left his ring in plain sight on the counter. Fuck. There’s no way that Andy’s going to miss that.

A few minutes later, Joe hears Andy step out of the bathroom and feels the mattress dip down as he crawls into bed. They haven’t really “cuddled” in months, but now Joe finds himself pulled close to Andy, enclosed in his arms, and _fuck,_ Andy’s shoulders are shaking against Joe’s back.

Joe has seen Andy cry _once_ before, when he first heard Patrick’s diagnosis, and even then, it was nothing like this. The back and shoulders of Joe’s shirt are damp in minutes, and even though Joe’s trying so hard to act like he’s asleep, a few tears slip out from his closed eyelids and drop onto Andy’s hand.

Andy freezes immediately. After a moment of debate, Joe carefully rolls out of his husband’s arms. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, not daring to look back at Andy’s face.

Neither of them speak for the rest of the sleepless night.

* * *

It kills him to do it, but the next morning, Joe gets out of bed (Andy finally fell asleep around five am, but Joe didn’t sleep at all) and leaves a note on the kitchen counter saying that he’s at the hospital. He knows Pete’s probably going to kill him for this, but it’s Patrick and he might have another tumor and Joe needs to see him.

He gets to the hospital way earlier than normal, giving himself two hours to kill before he can see Patrick. Once he’s settled into an uncomfortable plastic chair with a crappy cup of coffee, Joe pulls out his phone to text Patricia.

_Is he awake yet?_

She texts back three anxious minutes later. _Yes. The doctor says he woke up around two this morning, and he should be back in his regular room by now. You should be able to see him at eleven, and the doctor will be coming by to explain test results and stuff then too._

 _Thanks,_ Joe sends back before sagging against the back of the seat in relief. Patrick’s stable enough to be awake and back in his room, that has to be good, right? Joe _needs_ this to be good, for this one thing to just work out.

He ends up falling asleep in the waiting area not long after that, but he’s roused over an hour later by a crying baby. He rubs the sleep from his eyes and rights his posture in his chair before checking his watch. It’s 10:49, so he figures he can start heading upstairs to see Patrick.

Thankfully, when Joe reaches the seventh floor, Patrick’s name is back on the plaque outside of the door. Joe gives a small knock and hates himself a little for how much his heart leaps when Patrick says, “Come in!”

“Hey,” says Joe softly as he enters. He’s almost scared to see Patrick, but the only difference in his friend’s appearance is a few more tubes snaking their way out from his body and into beeping machines.

Patrick’s face seems to physically brighten when he sees Joe. “Hey! Is, uh, is everything okay? You look tired.”

Joe sits down as he thinks through what to say. “I was worried about you,” he admits. “I came in yesterday but you weren’t in your room and then I couldn’t see you. It was fucking scary, man.” He feels bad about the lie by omission, but he’s not going to drag Patrick into everything else right now.

“Sorry about that,” Patrick says genuinely. “I’m not going to lie, I still have no idea what happened.” He’s trying to keep his tone light, Joe can tell, but Patrick’s clearly scared.

Without really thinking about it, Joe reaches over and takes Patrick’s hand. There are no romantic intentions on either side, it’s just. Something to hold on to. _It’ll be okay,_ Joe wants to say, _We’ll get through this,_ but he knows that that would be a lie. “I’m here for you,” he finally says. “Me, Andy, Pete - we all are.”

Patrick squeezes Joe’s hand in thanks, not letting go. “Hey, Joe?” he says suddenly, sounding confused. “Where’s your wedding ring?”

Joe looks down at his bare hand and winces. “Uh, it’s at home. There’s been. . .a lot going. It’s no big deal, though, don’t worry about it.”

“Joe, you can’t tell me not to wor-”

He’s interrupted by Pete calling, “Hey!” from the doorway.

Joe drops Patrick’s hand immediately, but it’s too late. Pete’s already seen.

“Jesus _Christ,_ Joe,” he snaps. “I can’t fucking believe you sometimes.” Pete runs a hand through his hair roughly, turning away from Joe and Patrick. “Fucking hell.”

Patrick furrows his brow, looking between Joe and Pete in search of an explanation. “Pete? What’s going on?”

Pete shakes his head. “Joe can explain,” he practically spits. “I’m getting out of here.” He stalks away but pokes his head back in a second later. “I’m staying at the hotel down the street, the Garden one. I don’t really want to see your fucking face right now, but you can come stay. You should.”

With that, he disappears down the hall. Patrick turns to Joe and says, “Okay, what the _fuck_ is going on?”

“Um. Well, Pete and Andy got in a fight last night, and I don’t think Pete wants to be around Andy right now.”

“Why were they fighting?” Patrick doesn’t sound all that surprised about the fight itself; no one in the band is a stranger to Pete’s episodes. “And why does Pete think that you should stay with him?”

Joe looks down at the floor, avoiding Patrick’s eyes. “It’s. It’s complicated, and I-“

He’s saved by the entrance of Patricia and a solemn doctor. Patrick shoots Joe a _We’re talking about this later_ look and says, “Hey, Mom. Hey, Dr. Quentin.”

Patricia sits down next to Joe as Dr. Quentin turns to Patrick. “Our test results are in,” she says carefully.

“And?” Patricia asks.

Dr. Quentin adjusts the clipboard she’s holding. Patrick looks fairly terrified, and Joe can’t keep himself from reaching out and taking his friend’s hand again. “Do you want the good news first, or the bad?”

“The bad,” says Patrick. He’s holding onto Joe’s hand so tightly it’s almost starting to hurt.

“Well, there’s another tumor,” Dr. Quentin explains. “It’s smaller than the first one, but as we saw, it’s in a position to possibly restrict breathing.”

Joe tightens his grip on Patrick’s hand unconsciously. Another tumor. Fuck.

Patrick inhales shakily. “This good news better be pretty damn good then, after that,” he jokes after a moment. It’s clear he’s kind of freaking out, though.

Dr. Quentin smiles at Patrick in a way that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “The good news is that we think we can get it out. And if we do, it _may_ open a path to the first tumor. I can’t promise anything, but it’s looking likely at the moment.”

“When can you get it out?” Patricia asks.

“We’re going to try as soon as possible, which we hope will be sometime within the next week. Unless you all have any other questions, I have to head to my next patient.”

They all shake their heads a bit and Dr. Quentin briskly steps out. Patrick leans his head back against the pillow and closes his eyes, not letting go of Joe’s hand.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” Joe says quietly. “They said they can take care of it.”

Patricia gets up and gently runs a hand over the few remaining hairs on her son’s forehead. “I’ve got to get going, hon, I’m sorry, but I’ll be in as early as I can tomorrow.”

Patrick nods without opening his eyes as Patricia briefly places her hand on Joe’s shoulder and leaves. Joe rubs his thumb in circles over Patrick’s hand, wishing he could do _something_ to change this shitty, shitty situation.

It takes a minute, but Patrick finally opens his eyes. Their blue is unusually watery, artificially bright. “Fuck,” he says. “I just. I have to remember that there’s a chance. There’s a chance.”

“There’s a chance,” Joe repeats, feeling useless as fuck.

Patrick sits up, dropping Joe’s hand to pull him into a hug. Joe rests his chin on Patrick’s shoulder as he holds him close, wondering how pretty much everything in his life got so much worse so quickly. He wants to blame Pete, but Pete’s not the one that fell in love with Patrick, Pete’s not the cause of the tumors. Life’s just a fucking mess.

* * *

 

The sun is setting behind him as Joe steps onto his porch and almost feels like he should knock. He can hear the faint sound of drums from inside the house, loud and angry and desperate, but they stop almost as soon as he’s shut the door behind himself. Andy emerges from the basement a moment later, and he and Joe are caught in a long, awkward silence. Andy’s eyes are suspiciously red.

“Uh. Hey,” Joe eventually says.

Andy shifts his weight awkwardly. “Hey. How’s, um, how’s Patrick?”

“He has another tumor. The doctor said that she thinks they can get it, though.”

“Oh. Shit.

“Yeah.” Joe picks at his cuticles, decidedly not looking at Andy. He tears off a bit too much dead skin on his index finger and it starts bleeding; he presses it against the inside of his shirt and hopes it won’t leak through. “Look, Andy, I, uh. I’m going to go stay with Pete.”

There’s another long silence, and when Andy finally speaks he sounds like he’s fending off tears. “We can get through this, Joe, can we just talk about it? Please, Joe. I can’t- I can’t lose you.”

Joe drops his gaze to the floor. There’s a tiny spot of red bleeding through on his shirt. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I- fuck.” He turns away and heads into the bedroom to pack a bag. Andy follows him loosely, standing in the doorway and watching as Joe stuffs some random clothes into an old backpack with shaking hands.

“You don’t have to leave,” Andy pleads. “I’ll sleep on the couch if you want, we don’t even have to talk about it if you don’t want to, but don’t leave. Please. Through sickness and health and all of that, right? Whatever you need right now, okay? We can get through this.”

It breaks his heart, but Joe does his best to tune out his husband as he heads into the bathroom to grab his toothbrush and shit. His wedding band is still on the counter. He stares at it for a moment before slipping it into the back of a drawer where Andy hopefully won’t see it. Joe zips up his bag and walks out of the bathroom.

Andy hasn’t moved from his spot in the doorway, but he’s quiet now, resigned, like he’s realized that Joe’s not going to change his mind. As Joe carefully walks by him and towards the front door, Andy says, “I love you. I love you so fucking much, okay? And tell Pete I’m sorry.”

Joe nods, unable to speak around the lump that’s risen in his throat, and walks out of the door.

* * *

Before he knows it, Joe’s standing outside of the room that Pete directed him to and wondering if it’s too late to go back home. Pete opens the door before he can think about it too much, though.

“Andy says he’s sorry,” Joe says as he steps into the room and tosses his backpack onto the bed not already covered with Pete’s shit.

Pete sits down on his bed and scrubs a hand across his face. “Okay. And Joe, I’m sorry too. I’ve been acting like a fucking jerk to you, and this isn’t your fault, I’m just. . .mad. Not at you, just the situation, I guess. I’m going to try and chill, I just need some space from Andy right now, and I think you do too.”

“I understand,” Joe says genuinely as he sits down next to his bag. “Everything’s kinda fucked up right now, and it’s not anyone’s fault.”

“Yeah,” Pete agrees. He turns the TV on and flips through the channels for a few minutes before switching it off again. “Do you think that you’re going to, like, talk to Patrick? Does he know anything about what’s going on?”

Joe flops onto his back, staring up at the ceiling as he talks. “Well, he saw that I wasn’t wearing my ring today-”

“When you were holding hands,” Pete interjects flatly.

“I mean, yeah, but we weren’t _holding hands,_ okay, it wasn’t like that.”

“Okay,” Pete allows after a moment of consideration. “I shouldn’t have yelled about that earlier, I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Joe says. “But like I was saying, like, he asked why I wasn’t wearing it, and I told him not to worry about it. That’s when you came by, so he was like, ‘Okay, what the fuck is going on?’ I didn’t have time to even try and explain before the doctor came in, and _fuck,_ Pete, Patrick. . . he has another tumor.”

“Fuck,” Pete says. His voice is a little rough around the edges. “Fuck.”

“They think they can get this one, though,” Joe adds quickly.

Pete nods slowly. “Okay. That’s-that’s good. But still. _Fuck._ ”

“Yeah,” Joe agrees quietly, awkwardly. “So. I don’t really think that I should talk to him about all of this yet, you know?” Before Pete answers, Joe sits up and grabs his bag. “I’m gonna go shower and then go to sleep, I’m tired as fuck.”

Pete doesn’t say anything else, just picks up the remote again like anything’s going to be different. Joe steps into the bathroom and closes the door.

The water’s too hot, but Joe lets his skin sting because he kinda deserves it. He’s in a weird place of not quite having come to terms with his current situation yet. It’s like – he knows he’s here, he’s in this hotel room and Pete’s outside and Andy’s home alone and it’s all Joe’s fault and he knows that. But somehow, even though years of touring have accustomed Joe to being in strange hotel rooms that don’t quite feel real, everything feels more off than usual tonight. He wonders how the fuck he could ever explain this situation to his two-years-ago self and ultimately decides that he couldn’t.

Eventually, the sting of the water fades into an uncomfortable lukewarm and Joe realizes that he should probably get out. A minute later, as he’s digging through his bag for a t-shirt and boxers, Joe pulls out a lump of familiar black fabric.

It’s one of Andy’s sweatshirts, one that Joe used to take all the time. It must’ve been left in the backpack from last tour or something. Joe’s heart seems to physically hurt at the rush of memories of just how much he really fucking loved Andy, at the past tense that crept into that sentence without him even realizing.

Joe buries his face in the sweatshirt and takes a few deep breaths. It smells like Andy and everything that Joe wants to want, and Joe slips it on as he leaves the bathroom and curls up under the covers. Pete gives him a look that clearly says that he recognizes the sweatshirt, but neither of them say anything.

Pete’s found some nature documentary to watch, and Joe falls asleep listening to how swans mate for life. (Swans, Joe decides, are bullshit.)

* * *

 

For the first time in probably months, Joe waits until the afternoon to see Patrick the next day. He spends the morning sleeping and then staring out of the hotel window at traffic for about two hours. Pete runs to the store for a bit, and he’s about to call Bronx and Ashlee when Joe leaves, although he promises to stop by the hospital soon.

Joe spends the drive thinking of possible ways to explain everything that’s been going on to Patrick without actually explaining. He doesn’t want to stress Patrick out more, and he’s also a little afraid to hear what Patrick might say if Joe told him the truth. Pete said that he thought Patrick was in love with Joe, but he might be reading into the situation too much.

Joe sighs heavily. He just wants things to back to the way they were because _it’s not like anything’s going to work out with Patrick and now things are all screwed up with Andy and they’re never going to be the same no matter what I do and_ -

He forces himself to stop and take a breath, because getting that close to a panic attack while driving is a _really_ bad idea, and he’s at the hospital about two minutes later.

Joe puts himself on autopilot all the way to Patrick’s room, pushing open the door slowly when his knock receives no response to find Patrick asleep. It’s honestly the most peaceful Joe’s seen Patrick look in a long time, so he’s careful to be quiet as he pulls up a chair and sits down by Patrick’s bed.

Patrick starts to stir a few minutes later nonetheless, blinking his eyes open and slowly coming to focus on Joe. “Hey,” says Patrick softly, and Joe feels like his heart’s skipped a beat. A brief flash of a life passes through Joe’s mind, not even enough to be called a daydream: a life where Joe wakes up every morning to Patrick’s eyes like they are right now, sleepy and warm.

“Hey,” Joe says when he gets his breath back. “How are you?”

Patrick gives a small shrug, but Joe can see the tension in his friend’s jaw that means he’s in pain. “Good as it gets, I guess. You?”

“Good as it gets,” Joe answers with a light smile. “Have the doctors said anything else about…?”

“Nothing much,” Patrick says. “They’ve done some tests and they’re thinking that if they’re going to operate, it’ll be within the next week.” He breaks off into a coughing fit, burying his face in his elbow, and Joe quickly grabs some tissues from the sink when he sees that there’s a bit of blood on Patrick’s arm. The fucking normality of it _hurts._

Once Patrick’s caught his breath, he gives Joe a small, apologetic smile. “So, we kinda got interrupted yesterday; what’s happening with you and Andy?”

Joe attempts a nonchalant shrug. “It’s nothing.”

“Nothing,” Patrick repeats disbelievingly. “You’re not wearing your wedding band, Pete suggested that you stay in a hotel with him, and wait, isn’t it almost you and Andy’s second anniversary?”

“That was two days ago, yeah,” Joe answers carefully.

Patrick narrows his eyes. “So. Explain. Did you forget?”

“Well, yeah,” Joe sighs. “I guess. But like, it’s not just that, Andy knows that I can’t remember dates for shit.”

“What is it, then, if it’s not just that?” Patrick sounds genuinely concerned, and Joe wants to punch himself for saying too much, because, well. What the fuck is he supposed to say now?

“It’s. . .nothing. It’s nothing. We had a, uh, a fight. And so I’m staying at a hotel with Pete to give Andy some space. That’s all. It’s seriously fine.”

Patrick huffs irritatedly. “ _Joe._ I know when you’re lying, dude, just tell me what’s going on.”

“I-” There’s a split second where Joe considers saying _I love you_ , but he quickly shoots the idea down and says, “Pete just. He showed up, and he noticed some stuff that was going on and pointed it out, and now everything’s just a fucking mess.”

Patrick’s brow furrows with worry. “Joe, Andy’s not. . . being abusive, is he?”

“What-? God no, it’s nothing that bad,” Joe says, now realizing how his words might have sounded. “I’m fine. I just. . . I was dumb and didn’t notice some stuff that was right in front of my face, and now. . . well. Like I said. It’s a mess.”

“Can you just tell me what’s going on? I’ve known you for years, Joe, you know pretty much everything about me, and there’s not a lot I don’t know about you.”

Joe shakes his head. “I know, Trick, but it’s just. This time’s different. Maybe I’ll be able to tell you one day.”

“‘One day’ is not something that’s, like, super likely here. You know that,” Patrick says.

“I know,” Joe says, fretting chords on his thigh in agitation. “I just. Not today, okay? Not today.”

Patrick watches Joe carefully for a moment, as if deciding whether or not to push the issue, before sitting up a tiny bit more and holding out his arms. Joe doesn’t hesitate to hug Patrick back, and they sit there for a long moment in the not-quite silence of the hospital room.  


* * *

 

It’s three am, and Joe’s phone is ringing. Loudly. He groans and rolls over to squint at the number calling. It’s Andy. _Fuck,_ Joe thinks. What’s he even supposed to do? Answer it? Ignore it? Which would be worse?

The noise has woken Pete as well, although he still sounds mostly asleep as he mumbles, “Joe? Who’s calling?”

“Andy,” Joe says. His voice is a little unsteady.

“Are you going to answer it?” Pete asks carefully.

Before Joe can say, “I don’t know,” the phone stops ringing. Andy doesn’t leave a message.

Joe bites his lip and slowly types out and sends a text. _Are u ok?_ Pete seems to decide that the situation has resolved itself and goes back to sleep.

Andy is typing for what seems like forever before a tiny speech bubble pops on Joe’s screen. _No._

A few seconds later, it’s followed by _Come home?_

 _I cant. Not right now,_ Joe replies. Without really paying attention to what he’s doing, he tilts his head down so he can breathe in the once-home scent of the sweatshirt he hasn’t been able to take off yet.

There’s another long pause of typing before the three little dots simply disappear. Joe watches the screen for a few moments, but they don’t come back. He puts his phone back on the nightstand and sighs, blinking a couple of tears away before slowly falling back asleep.

* * *

“So, tomorrow, huh?” Joe asks Patrick. It’s two days since Andy called, and Joe hasn’t spoken to his husband at all since then. He’s pretty much been living at the hospital, debating whether or not to tell Patrick how he feels. Pete’s in the chair next to him, staring down at the eighth apology he’s received from Andy today alone.

Patrick nods. “Yeah, they’re going to take this motherfucker out. Nine am. They’ve already started me on some new meds to get ready, so sorry if I’m a little bit fuzzy right now.”

“It’s okay, man,” Pete assures him, finally looking up from his phone. “Are you feeling, like, ready?”

“I guess, I mean, like, as ready as I’ll be, you know?”

“Yeah, I know what you mean,” says Pete. He pauses for a moment, then adds, “Look, I uh. I’ve been a jerk to Andy, and I think I’m going to go see him, make sure he’s okay, all that stuff.”

Joe physically tenses up when Pete mentions Andy but forces his voice to remain steady as he says, “That’s probably a good idea. Would you mind taking that sweatshirt back to him? It should be on the back of the chair in the room.”

“Got it,” Pete says carefully. “Is there anything you want me to tell him? Patrick?”

“Tell him to get his ass down here before I’m gone,” Patrick jokes, though the beeping of the heart monitors that follows his words  makes for a shitty punchline.

Joe bites his lip. “Tell him I’m sorry? But I don’t want to see him right now.”

Pete nods. “Will do. I’m gonna get going before I change my mind, but stay safe, Trick. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

Patrick rolls his eyes in a kind of _Pete, I’m literally confined to a hospital bed due to a terminal illness; I don’t think I have a lot of room to do anything dumb_ way as Pete makes his way out of the room. It’s a familiar exchange.

Once Pete’s out of the room, Patrick sighs slightly and turns to Joe. “What the fuck is going on, Joe? I know there’s more than you said.”

“I told you what’s going on,” Joe protests weakly, but he can feel the nerves pooling in his stomach. He’s going to have to tell Patrick.

“You told me that Pete and Andy fought because Pete pointed something out to Andy, Joe, that’s not an explanation.” There’s an. . .edge to Patrick’s voice that Joe would almost assume is because of the drugs, but no. He knows that tone. Patrick sounds like he’s put the pieces together but isn’t letting himself realize quite yet.

“What did Pete notice?”

Joe lets out the breath he’s been holding slowly, mumbling something that sounds vaguely like “Imlovwiyou.”

“In words, maybe?” Patrick’s voice is soft as he reaches over, taking Joe’s hand, and _fuck,_ Joe can’t risk fucking this up. He can’t. And yet.

“I’m in love with you,” Joe forces out. It’s quiet, but it’s there. It’s there.

Patrick does a kind of sharp little inhale, the sound rough and scratched around the edges. “Joe, I-“

“It doesn’t have to be a big deal,” Joe says quickly. “I just. I _knew,_ but I just, like, didn’t let myself think about it, you know? Because Andy was there, and, well, you know, I couldn’t let myself _not_ be in love with him, he’s my husband. But. . .I wasn’t in love with him, and I honestly think I haven’t been for a while. But like Pete noticed, right, he showed up and saw how I left Andy to see you and he put the words to what was happening before I could, and that’s when I forgot Andy and I’s anniversary, and I’m fucking everything up and-“

“Joe,” Patrick interrupts. “It’s okay. Well. Not _okay_ , really okay, because of Andy, but like, I’m not, I’m not mad or anything.”

“Wait - you’re not?”

Patrick shakes his head. “Joe, I’ve-“ He bites his lip, like he’s trying to decide what to say. “I’ve kinda been head over heels for you since we met, dude.”

“I. . .” Joe’s brain, apparently, has decided that words just don’t exist. This wasn’t exactly where he’d expected this conversation to go, but he heads straight for the most prominent question on his mind.“What- what now?”

“Nothing.” Patrick drops his hand and turns away, his voice quiet. “ _Fuck_ . I shouldn’t have said anything. You’re fucking married to Andy and I’m fucking, fucking _dying_. Just- forget it. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

Joe wants to protest, argue that there’s some way to do anything but pretend this conversation never happened because he needs to salvage _something_ from this goddamn mess, but he knows that Patrick’s right. Still, though, Joe finds himself carefully climbing onto the bed next to Patrick and looping an arm over his waist.

Patrick stiffens for a moment before relaxing into Joe’s touch. He doesn’t say anything as he shifts to bury his head in Joe’s chest, and they lie like that for a while, not saying a word. Joe can feel his shirt growing damp and knows that his cheeks are wet as well. “I’m sorry,” Joe murmurs. He doesn’t know exactly what he’s apologizing for, but he has a feeling that it might be everything.

There’s no response from Patrick other than the way he brings his arm around to pull Joe closer. Joe presses his face into what’s left of Patrick’s hair and closes his eyes, and they breathe together like that for what could’ve been lifetimes before Joe realizes that Patrick’s fallen asleep.

Carefully, so as not to wake Patrick, Joe wipes his eyes and slips out of the bed, The beeping of the monitors mingles with the slightly ragged edges of every breath Patrick takes, and while the noise is familiar, something about it is too much right now. So Joe leaves. He walks out of Patrick’s room into a hallway that’s far too bright compared to the fading dusk outside, far too bright compared to everything that just happened.

* * *

 

Joe’s on the way to the hospital as soon as Patricia texts him and lets him know that Patrick’s out of surgery. He knows he still probably won’t be able to see Patrick for a few hours, but still. He has to be there.

But when he reaches the third floor waiting room, Joe wishes more than anything that he could just turn around, because there, sitting at a table with (conveniently) one empty seat, are Pete and Andy. They’re talking, hands wrapped around cups of coffee and eyes exhausted. Joe’s about to make a break for it when Pete sees him.

 _Have you gotten your shit together yet?_ Pete’s expression clearly reads.

Joe shakes his head.

Pete flicks his eyes up toward the ceiling in frustration before glancing at Andy and then back at Joe. _You should leave before he sees you._

It’s too late.

Andy, who has obviously noticed the elaborate faces Pete’s making by now, turns around in his chair, and it’s like he’s seen a ghost. Before he can even say or do anything, though, Pete grabs the sleeve of his shirt and pulls him back around to whisper something.

Joe wants to flee and head back to the hotel, but he can’t. He has to be here for Patrick. So he walks to the other side of the waiting room and sits down in the farthest empty chair from Pete and Andy, eyes decidedly focused on the ground. A moment later, Pete’s shoes walk into his line of sight, and Joe looks up. “I’m here to see Patrick,” Joe says. “That’s it. I can’t - I can’t deal with any of the rest of it right now.”

“Andy misses you,” Pete replies. “I know that most of this is my fault in the first place and that I should probably just leave before I make things worse, but. He misses you, dude. He needs you.”

“I _want_ to need him, okay? I want to miss him. I didn’t ask to fall for Patrick, I didn’t want any of this to happen. It’s better for him if I stay away.”

Pete opens his mouth to argue, but no words come out. He sighs, the sound both frustrated and exhausted, and walks back to where Andy is sitting. Joe returns his gaze to the floor.

* * *

 

The new tumor is gone. It’s gone, and it’s the first bit of happiness that Joe’s seen in days and he fucking clings to it. It’s gone. After hours of sitting in the waiting room and praying that there would be no complications, Patrick’s back in his room and it’s gone. There’s still the first one, of course, but the removal of this one has cleared what may turn out to be a path to the original. And so, even though Joe and Andy are standing as far apart as they can within the confines of the small room, even though Patrick hsa a new kind of sadness in his eyes when he looks at Joe, even though Patrick’s best attempts at singing along with Pete’s random assortment of triumphant songs are weak and they all miss his voice so much - Joe’s kinda happy.

Once Patrick’s falling asleep, though, and once Joe’s run out of excuses to leave the room when Andy comes near, the positive energy fades out of the room and they’re all left exhausted. Pete catches Joe in the hallway on the way back from one of his many “water fountain” trips, the dark circles under his eyes more prominent than usual. “Hey. Look. I’m not going to try and make you see Andy, okay, I just. I’ve made up with him, but I can keep the hotel room booked if you’re going to need it. I’ll come by and pick up the rest of my shit later today, but, I just wanted you to know.”

Joe nods. “I think I’ll, uh. I’ll be staying.”

Pete nods as well, pulling Joe in for a one-armed hug. “Have you talked to Patrick about anything?”

“Yeah.” Joe inhales softly, shakily. “Last night. I kinda told him everything, but we both agreed that it would be better if we pretended that never happened. It’s not like anything can change, you know?”  
  
“Okay. I get that. I’m sorry, dude.”

“Me too,” Joe says, an artificial laugh forcing its way out of his throat. Pete hugs him one last time, and they head back into Patrick’s room. Patrick’s smiling and there’s a note from the doctor on the bulletin board saying that they’re going to remove the first tumor that Friday, in four days and something feels like it might turn out okay.

* * *

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                       Thursdays are bullshit. They’re close enough to Fridays that the weekend starts to feel within reach, but they’re still a gross weekday. They’re always filled with meetings and deadlines because no one ever has plans for Thursday night. Their name sounds gross and they always last longer than any other day of the week. Thursdays are _bullshit_.

This Thursday especially is bullshit, because the surgery is scheduled for the next day and things are finally starting to look up, but then Joe is woken at fucking three am on a fucking _Thursday_ by a text from Patricia. He’s not really awake as he opens it, eyes groggy with sleep and struggling to focus in the dark of the hotel room, and the words don’t really register at first.

When they do register, though, Joe’s fucking awake. He’s pretty sure that his phone hits the wall at some point. There are fresh bruises on his knuckles that he doesn’t really see until the next day, and when he stumbles into the bathroom to find a shirt, he doesn’t recognize the wild, red-eyed creature staring at him from the mirror. And then it’s 3:28am and Joe’s driving faster than he ever has in his life down the mostly empty interstate.

Thursdays are bullshit. They’re bullshit because you can never get anything done on a Thursday, not when the weekend is finally within sight. They’re bullshit because unless the package you ordered gets shipped before Thursday, you’re not getting it until the next week. They’re bullshit because it’s a fucking Thursday when Joe finds out that Patrick’s gone.  


* * *

 

“Joe? Joe, open the fucking door, man. Joe!” Pete’s voice carries across the room to where Joe is laying on the bed, staring off into space, but Joe doesn’t react.

“JOE!” There’s another bang, and then the sound of footsteps stomping away. They return a few seconds later, there’s the buzz of an electronic lock opening, and then Pete is standing in the hotel room.

Joe forces himself to turn and face Pete. Pete looks fucking terrible, but Joe highly doubts that he can talk. By the time the sun slipped under the horizon on Thursday night, Joe had returned to the hotel to resign himself to a life of solitude, and he’d only left the bed to pee once. “Go ‘way,” Joe mutters.

Pete shakes his head. “Joe, you’re not the only one going through this right now. I’m going to take you home, okay, and we’re all just going to pretend that this,” he gestures to the hotel room, “never happened. C’mon.”

In the end, Pete has to practically hoist Joe out of the bed and into his shoes, but then Joe blinks and he’s halfway home. He thinks that Pete’s been talking, but he can’t hear much over his mind’s never ending stream of _PatrickPatrickPatrickcomebackcomehome._ He blinks again and Pete’s pulling into the driveway and wait, isn’t Joe’s car still at the hotel, but no, that doesn’t matter right now. All that matters is _PatrickPatrickPatrick_ and he’s _gone._

Andy’s waiting inside when Pete ushers Joe through the door, and he and Joe kinda collapse into each other’s arms. Joe just feels numb, and even as the months begin to pass by, nothing's really the same. And when Andy wakes up one morning to find his husband gone and a messy, handwritten note on the bedside table, he can’t quite say that he’s surprised.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you so much for reading! feedback makes my day :D


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